


sriracha and beer. that's all.

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jemma Simmons + PTSD, Papa Coulson, Simmons + PTSD, Simmons mostly by reference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7880791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson is concerned for Simmons' mental health.</p><p>Ch.1. - 2x03 outtake. Canon compat.<br/>Ch.2. - Post-Framework.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Coulson jogged briskly and quietly up the stairs to Simmons’ apartment. In his head, he turned over a few ideas for why he might be there; he was a representative of the apartments, he was visiting, or perhaps he had his own or was looking to buy. Depending who he encountered, or what he needed from them, any of the explanations could work, but mostly he was planning on not being seen or heard at all.

Fortunately, he did not encounter anybody on the stairs or the stairwell. With a key to Simmons’ apartment he slipped in without incident, and almost breathed a sigh of relief.

Her apartment was as he would have expected it to be: clean – very clean, and fairly bare – but not unhomely. Yet it did not look or feel like her. Looking around he could see almost nothing she had owned before coming here, save a textbook in the living room shelf, and a jacket. There was no nerd-culture merchandise, no souvenirs from her travels, no gifts she had received from Fitz, or from anyone else during her time with them. Not even a cardigan or a teacup. Instead, she’d gathered a few decorations from gift shops and artisans, like a painting of butterflies hanging in the entrance. She’d acquired a treadmill and a yoga mat. At least she was looking after herself.

Breathing deeply – and noting, somewhere, there was something releasing a light vanilla fragrance – Coulson set the paper bag on the counter. There was a neatly stacked pile of Science Weekly magazines – her more exclusive academic subscriptions having been restricted for the time being – and an oven timer. A single tea-towel and a set of mitts hung from the oven handle. It seemed she was settling bizarrely well into domesticity, or at least going through the motions of it. Of course, she would have lived most of her life in domesticity, so Coulson was not sure why this surprised him. Perhaps watching her stray further and further away from her civilian-esque role had stopped him seeing that she could live anywhere outside a bunker. He breathed another deep sigh at having his darkening attitude readjusted.

Then he opened the refrigerator.

Coulson’s jaw very nearly dropped. It was empty, _entirely_ empty, except for a bottle of sriracha sauce, and four remaining bottles from a six-pack of beer. A few specks of miscellaneous crud spoke to Simmons potentially at some point having stored something else in there, but there was no speck of greenery or vegetation in sight. Opening the freezer instead, Coulson saw only ice cubes. Moving down the cupboards over the bench, he found a tin of tealeaves and not much else, and in the pantry, a near-empty packet of cornchips. He gaped. That was it? Now that really didn’t sound like her.

Perhaps he’d just arrived at a bad time, he told himself. Perhaps he’d come right in between shopping trips. She did like fresh food, and it didn’t tend to last very long that way. Still, the twist in his gut that something was wrong had rarely led him astray before. He slipped the paper bag into the fridge in its entirety, and began his investigation.

The treadmill was in an open, visible place, by the window. A comfortable and well-chosen place to exercise. It was plugged in, but switched off at the wall, but Jemma was environmentally conscious and would prefer to conserve the energy. Coulson was fairly certain she used the treadmill, probably quite regularly, so she was exercising. She had some rental DVD’s lying on their side in an otherwise empty cabinet, but these were from a few nights ago, so she seemed to be at least trying to keep herself entertained.

Moving further through the house, Coulson observed that the flat was clean. She was clearly motivated to keep it up – although, Coulson now noted, perhaps a little _too_ motivated. Everything was away. It was all arranged in straight lines, to the point where the notebook lined up parallel to the landline phone and the stack of magazines matched each other exactly. Her bed was made to military precision, and the sparse jewellery she now possessed hung from its stand and only its stand. She had a clock, a glass of water and a lamp on her bedside table. Her shoes were neatly arranged and her clothes hung almost colour coordinated in the wardrobe. Coulson hummed to himself, and resisted the temptation to open any more doors or drawers; after all, this was his colleague and friend, not his target. Plus, Simmons was ordinarily a fastidious person. Perhaps the lack of belongings with the newfound extra space resulted in more apparent cleanliness. Perhaps she was just bored, and occupied herself with tidying. But still, it felt off.

Trying to shake the feeling, Coulson returned to the living room. He sat down and looked around. The room felt uncomfortable, but that was probably because it was new, and someone else’s. The remotes were meticulously aligned. Beside them was a small box, full of cards, bearing…motivational quotes? Frowning, Coulson picked a few from the top of the pile.

_Tomorrow is another day. – Vivien Leigh_

_I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. – Louisa May Alcott_

_Great work is done by people who are not afraid to be great. – Fernando Flores_

Coulson smiled at that last one. He could almost picture Simmons handing it out on business cards. Very apt. Although, he’d never pictured her as the motivational-quote type. Especially since these seemed to be the only good ones in the box. The others devolved into God and the universe and the power of will, asserting them all power he knew she did not believe they possessed. At best he could imagine her giving them a hard eye roll. Perhaps she’d put the best ones at the top for a reason. But why had she bought them in the first place? If nothing else, why not search for them and write them out herself? Perhaps they were a gift or she’d been willing to pay for the beautiful design, but Coulson shifted in his seat uncomfortably. It was just another quiet sign that something was off.

With a sigh, Coulson checked his watch. He patted the couch impatiently. After so many years, he could no longer dismiss his instincts, he could no longer dismiss the signs. It was not simple unfamiliarity that was driving his discomfort. It was not even his concern for Simmons, on her first undercover mission, although that probably added an extra edge of paranoia. He took a deep breath and tried to let it go. People struggled and dealt with things in their own way, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough to deal with. And she seemed to be coping, albeit in an odd way. He should just mind his business.

He checked his watch again.

Disappointed to find only a minute or so had passed, he got up to go to the bathroom. Standing in front of the spotless mirror cabinet as he washed his hands, he felt one more powerful surge of curiosity. He was a spy, trained and wired for snooping. Perhaps he couldn’t help it. Perhaps what pushed him over that final edge was the knowledge that if she were indeed seriously struggling, Simmons would never willingly let him know, let alone help. This was the last – possibly the only – chance he would have to see her vulnerabilities and never let her know that he had seen them. Just as he was trained for snooping, he was trained to forget. He would not know more about her than he needed to, for any longer than he needed to.

He took a deep breath, and flicked open the cabinet door. There was the standard – toothpaste, brush, floss – and a small perfume, and two small medicine bottles with her name printed across them in small, bold lettering.

“Ah, Jemma,” he sighed, studying them. He vaguely recognised the names from experience, having heard them around the place over the years. Though he couldn’t put an exact purpose to each of the formulations as Jemma herself probably could, he read in them a pharmaceutical attempt to control something along the lines of anxiety, depression, or post traumatic stress. One was for every day use, the other as needed. Episodic. Was she having some sort of attacks? He ground his teeth together. He’d have been considerably more reluctant to send her undercover if he’d known that. Then again, perhaps they’d only started once she’d arrived. Or, if he was being optimistic, they were just in case. If nothing else, Simmons was good at preparation – and, if indeed there was a risk of her having some sort of episode in public, she’d almost certainly arranged strategies for dealing with it already. She was a smart, adaptable woman, and as strong as the best of them.

His concerns confirmed, Coulson felt his gut settle. At least he knew what he was working with. He put the bottles back, careful to place and turn them so that they were in the same positions as when he taken them. He closed the cabinet and checked that the mirror was still spotless, and then returned to the kitchen. On his way, he took a sheet of paper from beside the phone, and scribbled down the chemical and brand names that he could remember.

He heard keys in the door.

For a moment, his heartrate quickened. He slipped the paper into his pocket and opened the fridge, pulled out the bag, and dropped it onto the bench, so that she would not know how long he might have been here. Then he turned, and crossed his arms, like he’d been standing in the kitchen, waiting, this whole time. Like he hadn’t seen what he’d seen. He was just here to put her at ease, and check on the mission. And make her eat something.

That was plausible, right?


	2. on the shoulders of giants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Framework, Jemma has an unexpectedly strong reaction to a nightmare about being buried alive, and calls Coulson for help.
> 
> TW: nightmares/night terror, buried alive, mass grave/mass murder mention.

She hadn’t expected to dream about it. 

Foolishly, perhaps, she had thought that the Framework was behind them now; that they were safe and could move forward and heal. Foolishly, perhaps – because Jemma Simmons dreamt that she woke up in a grave. 

In bed, her limbs lashed about as in the dream, she panicked and shivered and searched for a way out. Was she still in the Framework? Had Aida reset it somehow – was she about to find everyone switched off again? Was she safe? Was Daisy? 

The world of her panic narrowed as she noticed her lungs were heaving for breath. There was not much air in here, and it was dark, it was so dark, and she couldn’t cry out. Whether it was the logic of the dream or something more sinister she couldn’t be sure, only it felt like she should be just as scared by the thought of someone finding her, as by being here at all. 

_Buried alive._

_Buried alive, and here, and alone._

She gritted her teeth. 

“I am not dying today.” 

Scooping her shirt over her head to create a pocket of air as best she could, she pounded on the top of the coffin until it gave way, and swum up through the dirt that poured down on her. It was heavy, and suffocating, and the smell – in the dream, she couldn’t smell it, but it was as if she remembered; though unspecific, the stench was revoltingly strong. She struggled through it for what felt like hours and then, at long last, as she felt her fingers fly upward with no resistance – 

Then she woke, gasping for breath in a tangle of sheets. It was something of a relief, since she had escaped after all, but she hadn’t expected to dream about it. Let alone to have the dream leave her shaking and crying and – was that? –

“Embarrassing,” she muttered, climbing out of the mess she’d made and then dragging all the sheets into a pile. What should she do with them now? Take them down to the laundry? Take them into the shower with her, since she was just as much of a mess? And shaking, and crying? 

She gave up for a little while, slumping down on the floor and propping her back against the wall. As her body began to feel more grounded, she reached for the cell phone she’d put on her nightstand. 

Fitz had been expecting the dreams. He’d asked to sleep in a different room, for exactly this reason. And probably some others he didn’t feel like talking about. Staring at the phone in her hands now, Jemma couldn’t bring herself to call him. He had his own nightmares to worry about. 

And Daisy? She’d be just as exhausted as Jemma herself was, if nothing else. She deserved rest. She needed it. 

Finally, Jemma settled on the person to call. She pressed his name in _Contacts_ before she could second-guess herself, and though it took until the fourth, agonisingly long ring, he answered. 

 _“Jemma?”_ He sound surprisingly and mercifully alert. _“What do you need?”_

In a shaking, croaking voice, she managed – 

“S-sir, can you come to my room, please? It’s about – it’s about the Academy.” 

_“I’ll be right there.”_

He hung up immediately, and Jemma stood. It felt right to clean up, to prepare for a visit, but as she looked around at a pile of sheets in an otherwise almost empty room, it didn’t feel like there was anything much to do. So, she was still just standing, when he knocked on the door, and she moved to let him in.

“Sorry,” she apologised as he entered. “I…made a bit of a mess. Don’t, um. Don’t touch that. It’s covered in…” 

“Oh.” Obligingly, Coulson moved away from the pile of sheets. “Should we maybe go somewhere else to talk? My old office?” 

All of a sudden, getting out of the room seemed a good idea. Leaving the sheets behind, for now, Jemma slipped a dressing gown over her shoulders and followed Coulson through the dimly lit hallways and up to the loft they had once used as his office, while the base had been getting set up. There was still an old couch in here, and some paraphernalia, and it somehow reminded Jemma of simpler times. 

“Tea?” Coulson offered. 

“Please.” 

Jemma breathed a shuddering sigh. Her voice was quiet, but no longer so choked up. Her hands slowly stopped shaking. Though the ghost of her dream did not leave her, the darkness and the claustrophobia faded and she felt herself grow more steady. 

Coulson handed her the tea. 

“You wanna tell me what happened?” he asked. She looked down for a moment, considering rejecting the offer, but she had after all been the one to call him in the middle of the night, and come to sit in his office a mess of piss and tears. 

“In the Framework,” she explained, testing out her voice and trying to ensure it did not waver. “My avatar, the other version of Jemma, she was murdered. I woke up in… in her grave. A mass grave. At the Academy.” 

Coulson’s expression had been solemn from the start, but at this his lips turned downward, in a frown of sorrow and grief. He touched Jemma’s knee gently, briefly, and Jemma took another deep breath as if only remembering to do so when prompted. 

“I was alive, obviously, and she wasn’t real, obviously,” Jemma continued, “but I – just now I had a dream about being buried alive and it can’t be a coincidence, can it? I mean, I thought I was back there. Oh, Coulson, you should’ve seen it. Aida’s Academy. All the things that happened there… Real people were in those graves, Coulson. Real people were – were – were in there. I _walked on them.”_

Noticing her hands begin to shake, Coulson moved to sit beside her, and gently steadied her. He wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulders, hugging her to him, and she used the fortress he built around her to catch her breath. 

“I know, Jemma,” he soothed. “It was a terrible, terrible thing that happened there. I’m so sorry you had to face it again.”

“What happened to those people?” Jemma wondered. “To the students?” 

“Agent Weaver and her team had as many people as possible identified. They’ve been returned to their families and buried with respect.” 

“Okay.” 

It was a shallow comfort but she could hardly expect any better. Coulson understood, and rubbed her arm gently as he let her go. 

“You did a brave thing, going back there,” he assured her. “I know you were doing your job, but that was above and beyond the call of duty. Not a lot of people could walk back into a warzone that was once their home – let alone twice, apparently.” 

Jemma shook her head, and wiped away the tears that had begun to fall again. 

“I’m glad I know,” she explained solemnly. “It’s not like I could have stopped it.”

“Of course not,” Coulson assured her. “And I’m so, so glad that you were one of the safe ones. We’d hate to lose you Jemma, you know that.”

She smiled a little, remembering the scolding he’d given her when she’d tried to jump out of the Bus. 

“I do my best to stick around, sir,” she promised. “They’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

“That’s the spirit,” Coulson praised. “You’re a trooper, Jemma. And a damn fine agent. And a bit of crying and wetting the bed is never going to change that, don’t you worry. It’s a hard world, and even the strongest people get knocked down sometimes. It’s okay to be upset, even about things you can’t change. It doesn’t make you weaker. Sometimes it can even make you better, as an agent, and as a person.” 

Jemma blinked up at him. 

“You sound like you’ve had this conversation before.” 

He smiled softly.

“You remind me of someone I know, that’s all.” 

Jemma smiled a little at that, and sipped her tea.


End file.
